


On Practical Meteorology and the Training of Sheep Dogs

by marxist_monke



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Terry Pratchett - Fandom, The Tiffany Aching Series - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dog training, F/M, I didn't really figure out how to end this properly it just kind of runs on badly, Not my best, domestic life, powerful witch stuff, rural life, slice of lifey, tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:49:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28607004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marxist_monke/pseuds/marxist_monke
Summary: Her grandmother had raised the finest sheepdogs the chalk had ever seen, and yet Tiffany ends up taking home the runt of the litter. The seasons run round each other, and before she can catch up to the time, it's summer, she's getting married, and her dog still pees on her shoes.
Relationships: Preston (Discworld)/Tiffany Aching
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	On Practical Meteorology and the Training of Sheep Dogs

On Practical Meteorology and the Training of Sheep Dogs

The new puppies are black and white, some with crooked ears and some with straight ones. Tiffany picks up one of the smallest pups, its big black eyes squinting at her. She checks over its paws, listens to its heartbeat. There’s a murmur there. 

“Don’t think that one will make it to winter.” Goodwife Addy offers up. Tiffany smiles. 

“May I buy him off you?” She asks. Goodwife Addy snorts. 

“Your money's no good here, lass. Not after you saved my man’s hand from his own foolishness with the plow, nor cured my Brian’s cough. Besides, it wouldn't be right taking money for a pup that won’t make it a year.”

Her grandmother had had two champion sheepherders who are the stock that most of the Chalk’s dogs are related to. Thunder and Lightning. If she whistles for them, the dogs will still come bounding up to her, now beings of storm and sky. 

In honor of her Granny Aching and her Granny Weatherwax, she names the puppy “Weatherman” and calls him “Wet” for short. The murmur in his heart is tricky, but she’s worked on murmurs in the hearts of babies before, and this is none too different. Every morning she kisses the top of his tiny head and tells him how big and strong his heart is going to be. She speaks strength into him and he’s tucked into her little satchel as she goes about her day on the farm. 

“Preparing for a baby?” Tiffany’s mother teases her. Tiffany just laughs. She doesn’t know if she wants children someday. The children she teaches at their small local school are kind of pests. 

Wet grows slowly. One of his ears is floppy, the other perks upright, giving him a jaunty appearance. She checks in on his brothers and sister fairly regularly as she does all the other animals in the village. Wet is smaller than even the tiniest of his sisters. 

“He’s not going to be a champion sheepherder, that’s for sure. Sheep don’t respect a mostly white dog. Or one that small.” Her father warns her. Her father has a good eye for animals and is right on the money about Wet. The first time Wet meets a sheep, he’s 10 weeks old. He doesn’t shy back, or try and herd. Instead, he waddles over to the lamb and licks gently at the larger animal's knees. The lamb lowers its head in a very standard charge that Tiffany remembers getting headbutted by as a child. She scoops Wet up. 

“It a seems t’me Mistress, that the pup isna good for nuthin.” Rob tells her. He’s frowning at Wet who’s currently passed out in Tiffany’s lap, exhausted from a day of splashing in mud and dirtying fresh linens. 

“Is that because he’s too small?” Tiffany asks, intentionally picking a sore point. Rob Mac Feegle scowls at her. 

“Oh! Small? Nay mistress, small things are mighty!” Rob postures and then gestures with his sword. 

“Oi you wee doggy! Yer goin t’be the finest dog that’s ever been seen on the Chalk, ya’ hear? Or My name isna’ Rob Anybody!” 

Wet yawns and licks his nose. 

“I think you’re right.” Tiffany agrees. “I’ve got a feeling about him in my bones. We’ll see.”

He’s a pest of course, as all puppies are. And terribly clever, though only in ways designed to aggravate. Weatherman figures out how to get into her cabinet of tinctures and downs a whole bottle of fireweed juice and eats a shamble. Tiffany stays up with him, late into the night and speaks health into him. She’s furious with him, but even more so with herself. She’s almost certain she’d locked it, with a spell too. A week later he chews up the welcome rug in her shepherd’s hut and pees on the pony’s blanket three times in a row. She could swear he’s holding it just to spite her.

“You’ve got to put the fear of the boot into him, Tiff. He don’t respect you.” Her father warns. 

She’s a witch. Maybe the most powerful witch of a generation, and definitely the Witch of the Chalk. If she can’t manage what’s happening in her own cabin without ‘the boot’, she’s hardly worth the title. Tiffany redoubles her efforts. Flies to Ankh-Moorpark to visit Preston, with Wet in tow. He loves the broom, and snaps at passing clouds. 

“Ah! He’s adorable! I’d read your letters but he’s precious Tiff!” Preston exclaims. Of course Wet takes to Preston immediately, following him everywhere in a way that he’s never done for her, sitting and laying down at Preston’s gentle requests and even exercising the strength of will to not chew Preston’s shoes. 

“Yes and terribly behaved. I was actually hoping you could walk me to the library. I want to see if they have any books on animal behavior.” 

Preston winces, nervous. 

“Well, the best library for that would be the university, but they have rules about women scholars…” He trails off. 

And that is the story about how Tiffany brings wrath to the door of Unseen University, and a freshly baked banana bread to the librarian. But it’s a story for another time.After long discussion (putting the fear of THE LOOK into their very souls) the wizards agree that it would be rude not to let a passing scholar go through the stacks. Especially one the librarian seems to like so much. 

“It’s not like she’s enrolling here.” Ridcully points out, to mollify them. Behind him, Tiffany is paging through a massive book, occasionally referencing another one to her side. 

“Definitely not.” She chimes in, distractedly. “There would have to be something of value to be taught.” Wet yips, driving home the point. 

She stays with Preston for a few days, all the while worrying for the Chalk, and Miss Nora’s ailing knee and the Crabber’s new baby. Preston takes her on a walk in Apocatthary Gardens. They meet a mad woman training dragons. 

“No, no Humphrey we do not flame at people!” She has a voice like an opera singer. 

“I am terribly sorry. Humphrey is still learning to control his flame. He’s quite excitable, you see. We’re just fortunate there've been no-ahem-combustive incidents.” The woman can only be described as statuesque. She’s dressed in practical, if well made, clothes. 

Humphrey flames again, this time at Wet. Tiffany catches the fire and snuffs it out, transferring the heat into the paving stone. 

“That is quite a neat trick. Would certainly make dealing with some of the more energetic hatchlings easier. I don’t suppose you can teach it? Oh, where are my manners? Lady Sybil Ramekin-Vimes, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Preston goes as still as the Hippo carvings on the brass bridge. 

“This is Preston.” Tiffany offers. “He’s a doctor in training at your hospital, my lady. I’m Tiffany Aching. And I suppose I could teach you to catch fire, but you’d need to be a witch.”

“Ah.” Lady Sybil briefly looks disappointed. Then she perks right up.   
“Say I don’t suppose you could help me with a sick dragon? He’s got a nasty case of back flame and I’m worried he’s liable to pop at any moment.”

Tiffany thinks of the stack of books on the canine mind she has waiting for her at the university. Wet chews at her ankle. 

“Now now, try this instead, dear thing.” Lady Sybil bends forward and offers Wet a handkerchief. When he seems uninterested, the noblewomen wiggles it around enticingly. Wet detaches from her ankle and lunges after the handkerchief, yipping happily. 

“Are you sure you’re not a witch? I’ve been trying to get him to stop teething on me for months now.” 

Lady Sybil laughs. She has a good, hearty laugh. It reminds Tiffany briefly of Granny Aching. You can always trust someone with a belly laugh like that. They’re not the types to hide their feelings. 

“Not a witch at all I’m afraid. Always wished I had the knack, but I’m sure it just doesn’t come up as much in” Lady Sybil sniffs derisively “‘good breeding.’ Just know a fair bit about how animals think- you can’t simply tell them ‘no’, it’s far better to redirect their attention.” 

Tiffany gently tugs at the handkerchief Wet is destroying. He tugs back, excitedly. 

“I’d be happy to come take a look at your sick dragon. Would you be willing to give me some advice with Wet here? He’s been a devil to get to listen.”

And so Tiffany spends the afternoon with Preston and Lady Sybil. Preston is a surprising help- swamp dragon anatomy has a great number of similarities with goblin anatomy, and a fair number of his patients at the hospital are goblins. Lady Sybil is a treasure trove of information. 

“I never get angry with them, or If I am, I never take it out on them.” She explains. “It’s simply useless, as they don’t understand they’ve done something wrong. They only understand that you’re frightening them. If they misbehave, it’s far better to find a new outlet for the behavior.”

Tiffany makes a mental note that when she returns to the library, she’ll reshelve “On zer Dominant Discipline of Zer Hund” in the fiction section. 

She spends two more days in Ankh- Moorpark, taking Preston to see a play and visiting Miss Proust. 

There is a bevy of errands and tasks to run about doing when she returns to the Chalk. A heavily pregnant Letitia needs new medicine for her morning sickness, Goodwife Marnie is struggling with her two ailing parents and the cheese needs turning. She makes certain to make time for Weatherman. In between tasks, waiting out in the cold for people to answer their doors, they practice. 

“Shouldn’t it be a cat?” Letitia asks as Tiffany checks her pulse and the baby’s heartbeat. Roland doesn't know he’s having a girl yet and Tiffany won’t spoil the surprise. 

“A cat?” Tiffany wrinkles her nose. Letitia has a cat; a fluffy tortoiseshell by the name of Gretel who, Tiffany is nearly certain, is the result of Greebo visiting the Chalk with Nanny Ogg. 

“Yes, aren’t witches supposed to keep cats as familiars instead of dogs?” Letitia insists. 

“Don’t really need a cat.” Tiffany moves Wet from his resting spot on Letitia’s belly to check the baby’s position. Head down. Good. 

“Horace eats any mice I might have. And the Nac Mac Feegles aren’t too fond of cats- they chased Nanny Ogg’s cat about when they last saw him. Besides, he’s not a familiar. He’s just a dog.”

As if to confirm the point, Wet jumps off the bed and lifts a leg. Tiffany suppresses her desire to shriek, and merely picks him up instead. 

“Looks like you need some outside time, boy.”

They visit Wet’s littermates. The pups are all ten months old now and beginning to learn their trade. He’s tiny compared to them. And useless as a sheep herder still- she tries again, putting him in the pen with some ducks this time. His brothers and sisters had all instinctively chased the ducks about the pen, only stopping from nipping with a cuff from Addy’s husband. Wet doesn’t even try to stalk. He just ambles over politely and gives one of the ducks a gentle lick on the beak, before settling onto the hay to let the ducklings crawl all over him. It has been the same thing the last time she’d tried with the lambs. 

“He really is a useless dog, Tiff.” Addy apologizes. “And far too small. He’s from good stock! Don’t know what happened really. I can take him off your hands if you like- Edmund heads into Ankh-Moorpark, he can set him free in the countryside somewhere.”

Tiffany shakes her head, no. Weatherman is her dog. 

“He’s the perfect size for broom travel. And besides, I don’t keep my own sheep, just a pair of goats and a pony. My Pa has good herding dogs for the flock, and Wet keeps me in good company.”

Addy gives her a look, and Tiffany can hear the spillwords. I’d never keep a useless animal, but I suppose a witch is bound to be a bit strange.

The winter is cold and hard that year. Tiff spends a lot of it on a broomstick, checking up on the elderly in their cottages. Wet keeps her warm on long broomstick rides and warms the homes of the old folk they visit, often making himself useful by sleeping soundly on cold feet. When they’re not hurrying about, Tiffany plays games of hide and seek with Wet around the shepherding hut and the land upon the downs. He gets very good at finding her. 

Before spring’s thaw comes about, the ewes begin dropping lambs, because of course, the stupid things do. Tiffany throws on her biggest cloak and toughest boots and trudges out into the snow, looking for ewes who will be all too happy to headbutt her once she finds them. Somewhere up ahead, Wet yips softly. Sighing, Tiffany hurries after him. He’s curled up around a baby lamb, keeping it warm in the snow. 

“Oh. Well, good job Wet.” He snuffles softly against the baby lamb’s ear. It bleats. 

At first, she thinks it's a fluke, but Wet finds six more lambs that season, and the Aching farm doesn’t lose a single ewe or newly dropped lamb to the snow. She takes him to the MacGruddy farm, where he sets to work again, pacing through the snow with his nose against the ground, hunting for the scent of fresh born lamb. 

She’s used to catching bits of gossip about herself in hushed tones, but the words are new. 

“...not witchcraft. No, that’s on account of her being Granny Aching’s brood. Did I ever tell you about Mistress Aching? She could find a lamb in a blizzard and didn’t lose a single sheep in that flood we had, oh fifteen years back. Best damn shepherd we’d ever seen on the chalk.”

Tiffany’s heart swells with pride, and Wet gets chicken in his bowl that night. 

Summer comes. Preston does too. He comes sprinting up the hill to her hut, satchel practically falling off his back. Tiffany rushes forward to meet him and is beaten there by Wet, who dances around Preston’s feet in sheer joy. 

“Welcome home, doctor.” She greets him. His eyes glow with pride. 

“I don’t suppose you have space for me in the hut here?” He asks. “I’ll need to set up a room in town to take patients, but I’d rather make someone trudge up a hill if they want to bother me when I’m sleeping.” 

Tiffany raises an eyebrow. 

“People will gossip. I mean, more than they already do.”

Preston nods somberly, then drops to one knee. Wet uses the occasion to try and worm his tongue into Preston’s mouth. Half laughing, trying to fend Wet off with one hand, Preston fishes a small box out of his pocket with the other. 

“Will you marry me, Miss Tiffany Aching?” 

She’s seen this coming, of course. She’s a witch, after all. 

“Suppose I say no? I like the name ‘Aching’.”

“Well then, people will definitely gossip about me staying in your cottage. And I’ll look like a fool- my certificate from the Lady Sybil Free Hospital says Doctor Preston Aching after all, and reprinting it costs five dollars.”

Tiffany kisses his big, stupid smiling mouth. 

“I want a summer wedding.” He tells her. She nods.   
“And you obviously aren’t going to wear white, but I can wear my doctor’s whites. We can have it around the time they do the cheese run, so that everyone’s already in one place. Do you think we can get your witch friends to come on short notice? Can they help decorate?”

Preston turns out to be a groomzilla. Tiffany puts up with him. The night before the wedding, Preston asks her six times if she’s “sure” and the seventh is if she’s “sure she’s sure”. At this point, ‘sure’ has stopped sounding like a word and Tiffany loses her temper. 

“I know my mind, Preston! Now if you’re not certain-'' Tiffany is cut off by a whirl of blue skin and red hair. The rest of the night is spent tracking the Nac Mac Feegles by broomstick with Wet barking encouragement, following their kidnapping attempt from the air. When she finally catches up to them she has choice words for Rob. 

“Rob Anybody you give me back my fiancé you thieving rascal!” She stamps her foot. 

“Oh no, Rob.” Big Willy whimpers. “She’s stomping o’ the foot now.” 

“But Mistress!” Rob is sitting atop Preston’s head, where he’s been hogtied and has, what looks like a chunk of sheep’s wool, stuffed in his mouth. 

“Mistress he’s a making you damned mad! We figure we be teaching him a lesson to play with your heart! You’re far too good fer him mistress, and if he be gettin cold feet we can warm them right up over our hearth!” 

Tiffany is touched truly. Her family will cry tomorrow and wish her well, the witches will cackle and make wedding night jokes, but the Nac Mac Feegles will always care for her as if she “were still a wee bairn.” To everyone else, she is the self-reliant Witch o’ the Chalk who needs no caring after. To Rob Anybody, she is still just an impossibly brave little girl with a cast iron pan, determined to get her brother back from the queen of the Fae. 

‘You can’t let yourself go soft like that on them or you’ll never get them back under your thumb’ her second thoughts offer up. 

‘Oh shush. It’s alright to have a sensitive moment the night before our wedding’. Her third thoughts retort. 

“Thank you Rob. But please, there’s no need to burn Preston’s feet off.” 

Grumbling, Rob pulls the gag out of Preston’s mouth. His big brown eyes look up at her with nervous energy and he babbles. 

“I never meant to make you think I didn’t want to marry you! I want to, I want to so much, it’s just you never need anything and maybe I’m just another chore for you to worry over? And I know your Mistress Weatherwax never married and all your witch friends say you’re going to take her spot so-“ 

Tiffany shuts him up with a kiss. Preston manages to get an arm free from the hogtie and loop it over her shoulders and pull her in close. Wet squirms between the two of them and begins adding moisture to Preston’s already damp face. 

“Oh Tiff.” He says, voice quivering slightly.

“Oh Preston” she answers “if you ask me if I’m sure an eighth time I shall send you away with Rob to have roasted feet.” She informs him and kisses both his cheeks. Preston bursts out laughing and after a moment Tiffany can’t help but join him, rolling in the grass till their stomachs hurt from it. And then, because she’s a traditionalist, and also an anti-traditionalist, they do a different kind of rolling in the grass. 

The wedding is beautiful of course and her mother cries and Nanny Ogg drinks too much while Petulia takes care of her and even Annagrama manages to have a good time. The Nac Mac Feegles insist on Rob giving a speech, and what Tiffany can catch if it through the hiccuping and crying and drinking, it sounds very touching. When they finally trudge up to the cabin that evening, feet sore from dancing, Weatherman throws up on the floor. 

“Shoes off.” Preston insists and then bends to clean up the vomit. 

“Marry me Preston Aching.” Tiffany says with fondness. How rare, for someone to see her basket overburdened and take a parcel out. She loves him so. 

“Hmmm… I’ll have to ask my wife.” He answers cheekily. They curl up exhausted together when he’s done cleaning. 

Two nights later there is frantic banging on the door. Wet yips softly as Tiffany groggily crawls out of bed. Preston throws a robe over his shoulders and follows her to the entryway. 

“Me or you?” He asks her. Tiffany squeezes his hand softly, feeling his anxiety despite his steady voice. Whatever reason someone is summoning them in the night, it must be urgent. And if it’s him, it’s almost certainly someone at death’s door. 

“Mistress Aching!” It’s Perspicacia MacCready, a shawl over her nightgown and her eyes frantic. “Mistress Aching, they’ve taken my daughter! She’s missing from her room, all that’s left is a note!” 

“What’s it say?” Tiffany asks. She’s slipping on her boots, not even bothering to change out of the worn and frayed blue dress she sleeps in. Preston makes himself useful and throws her heavy black wool cloak over her shoulders. 

“I canna read, Mistress Aching, but she was seeing a boy!” Perspicacia says. Tiffany relaxes a bit. Probably not the end of the world. Tiffany laxly plucks the note and skims it. Then reads again. Her stomach drops to her feet like a stone in her chest. 

“What’s it say, Mistress Aching?” Perspicacia begs. Tiffany folds the paper and hands it back to her. 

“Please, Miss MacCreedy Won’t you let Preston serve you some tea? She just ran off with a flight of fancy. I’ll pull out some maps and see if I can divine where she’s gone.” 

Tiffany makes a shamble, careful to keep the shaking from her hands. Preston makes tea. Wet crawls up into Perspicacia’s lap, nosing her gently.

The shamble comes apart in her hands. Tiffany swallows heavily and tries again. For a moment it spins in place, then bursts into flames. 

“She’s lost to me, isn’t she?” The woman wails softly, burying her face in Wet’s fur. Tiffany balls her hands into fists. They took one of her people. One of hers. 

“No, Miss MacCready. I’ll find her. She can’t have gone far.” Tiffany pats the older woman on the shoulder and goes to fetch her broom from the cupboard. Preston follows her to the front step and Wet comes trotting after her. 

“What is it?” he asks softly, large brown eyes full of concern. Tiffany kisses him on the cheek and strongly considers lying for a moment, to spare his feelings. But no. She’d chosen a man to match her, not serve her. In this partnership, they are equals and she won’t do him the disrespect of lying to him, even to spare him worry. 

“Vampire.” She answers. His eyes grow wide with fear, and then he closes them. Grasps both her hands in his tightly and then lets go. 

“Be careful, my wife.” He tells her. Tiffany nods.

A moment later, she is above the cloud line, Wet taking point on her broom. She’s not sure what she expected, but some instinct had told her to take him along. Tiffany turns the broom Northward. Wet barks, urgently, facing West. Tiffany pauses. Turns the broom West. Wet’s tail thumps in place and he barks more rapidly. 

‘Know when to trust your senses girl. And know when to trust your magic.’ Her second thoughts sound like Granny Weatherwax. Tiffany pushes the broom forwards, following Wet’s insistent barks. The wind up this high is biting and cold. They float through a cloud, and Tiffany can feel magic ripple through the air as she crosses the bounds of a regio. On the other side, a castle looms where there hadn’t been moments ago. She lands. Wet jumps down in front of her and begins racing towards the castle. Tiffany picks up her skirts in one hand and follows at a jog.   
Wet bounds in front of the imposing, spiked doors and yips excitedly, tail quivering. Tiffany reaches forwards to open the massive siege-proof double doors. They don’t budge an inch. Locked. 

No matter. Tiffany rubs her hands together and calls the heat of a thousand cooking fires to her palms and through them. The iron bars melt, setting the wood afire. Wet jumps back, cowering under her nightgown. 

“It’s alright, good boy.” She gives him a good scratch of the rump and he licks her chin. “Go on. Find.” Hesitant at first and then more confident a moment later, Wet bounds forwards. Tiffany rushes after him, clutching to keep her hat on her head. She scowls. In the rush she’d forgotten her witch’s hat and is still wearing her sleeping cap, little fuzzball dangling at the end. 

They go careening down the hall, Wet’s paws struggling to find purchase on the marble. It’s almost anticlimactic when they reach the vampire. He’s not standing in the moonlight, cape draped around his shoulders and scowling menacingly. He’s sitting at a desk, paging through a large book. He looks up with disdain when they enter the room. 

“Why,” he says with a sneer “is there a dog in my study?”

“That” she replies. “Is Weatherman. He predicts storms.”

“I see no storm, girl. Only a midnight snack, that you will so thoughtfully provide, now COME HERE.” The vampire beckons. Tiffany snorts. So obvious. 

“Then you should learn to look more carefully.” She answers, softly. She closes her eyes. 

And opens them again. Feels the grass is her brow, the wind is her hair, the rivers and streams are her blood, the chalk her bones, and the people her soul. These are her lands. How dare he take a person from them. 

“Thunder at my side. Lightning to my heel. Weatherman, before me, the witches that raised me at my back. Leave this place, or perish.” She tells him, in a voice that both does and does not belong to her. Big fat drops of rain begin to fall from the sky outside and the wind whips itself into a frenzy, slamming open the large windows. The ghost dogs of Granny Aching split the fine wood floors to her right and left as they make themselves known, specters of storm. Before her, Weatherman begins a rhythmic bark that brings to mind a tolling bell. 

“Wait, wait a moment.” The vampire sighs a rubs his brow. “You’re a witch.” The vampire gestures at the door. “Igor!” he calls. 

Tiffany pauses. Feels the power of the Chalk tremble in her being. Takes a breath. Lets it go. 

“You might have said. Take the girl and go. My uncle tangled with one of your kind. It didn’t end well for him. I know better.”

Tiffany thinks about it for a moment. The power of the land under waves is at the end of her fingertips, at her beck and call. She could reach forward and bring the wrath of a storm to her hands in another breath. No. She’s the Witch of the Chalk, but not the arbiter of divine justice. Even dark things deserve a place in the world. 

Tiffany flies a stupefied Melissa MacCreedy home and reunites her with her bereft mother. Perspicacia cries. Melissa cries. Preston makes more tea and Tiffany goes to bed. 

It takes Tiffany three months to come to this. The idea had snuck its way into her mind the night she’d rescued Melissa MacCreedy, but it had taken Preston quietly asking if she wanted children to give her the courage. She stands in the uplands, the breeze carrying the first scents of autumn to her. In front of her, Wet keeps a casual eye on the town.

“Wet.” She whispers. He trots over. “Wet, find my grannies for me.” She tells him. Weatherman perks up and bounds forwards, high pitched barks echoing behind him. Tiffany startles, honestly surprised that it worked, and then races after him. They cut through fields, feet churning up dark earth. Sheep bleat and flee from them, and Wet pushes onwards, past the tamed pastures and into the fields. They sprint down a particularly steep hill and at the bottom is a door. Smooth mahogany with a brass handle. It is regal, but not gilded. The kind of door a well-respected teacher might open every day, not a king. Tiffany reaches out for it, Wet standing eagerly before her, ready to paw it open. 

She remembers this door. She’d opened it for the Hiver once, over a decade ago now. On the other side is an unending desert and on the other side of that…

Wet whines. Tiffany reaches down to shush him. Places a gentle hand on his back, and hears the murmur in his heart, mostly healed but not completely gone. She pauses. 

“Good boy Wet! Good find.” She has her answer and her mind made up: she doesn’t know the answer yet, and it’s okay. Even a witch won’t have all the answers.

“Now Wet.” She says. “Find Preston. Find our home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Uggh I eventually just gave up and posted it as it. It's not my best work by far, but at least I spend two hours trying to edit this into sense instead of drinking about the complete collapse of American Democracy.


End file.
